Drag you Down
by 1985laurie
Summary: Part Nine up! Something strange is happening to House...and he knows its gonna hurt. No slash. HouseWilson strong friendship. No spoilers past mid s3. Mysterious happenings afoot...beware! R
1. Part One

**Author's Note: Yes I know **_**Oh God, not another new fic…**_**But, I promise I haven't forgotten about the other one. This one is just too much fun to write! Plus, it's easier for me to write two, simultaneously. This is based on a book by F. Paul Wilson, called 'The Touch' – I'm just borrowing certain parts of the plot and changing them for my own amusement. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! x**

House weaved his motorcycle recklessly through the late night Princeton traffic; feeling the damp spray from the road clinging to the bottom of his pant legs and seeping through his sneakers. It simply contributed to his already miserable mood. It had been a particularly crappy day. In fact, it was turning into a pretty crappy week.

He'd managed to successfully misdiagnose the same patient three times; he was still stumped as to what was actually wrong with him. Foreman had been the one ordering him to go home in the end – _Foreman!_

It was bad enough having Wilson nagging him all day, forcing him to take a break when it got to his thirty-third hour without sleep; but to have Foreman ordering him around too… "Ridiculous" he muttered irately, pulling up to a red light and bracing himself, and the bike, with his left leg.

He yawned and gave his arms a stretch, flexing his fingers and feeling a satisfying crack from his knuckles. He really should invest in a good pair of gloves; the rain was giving him all kinds of aches, and the fact that he was getting older didn't help. _You do realise that if you fall off, you'll have no skin left on your hands, whatsoever _He groaned, blocking out the sickly mental image that was daring to form in his head.

_Maybe a little sleep will do you some good…_he thought, struggling to keep his eyes open now that he was stationary. The hum of the engine was lulling him into daydreams of better ride outs; thoughts of cruising down winding country roads and feeling the heat beating simultaneously from the road and the sun.

A car horn jolted him out of his musings with a start. "Jesus!" He looked left, over to the offending vehicle, which was swerving out of the way of a homeless guy.

"Get out of the road Grandpa!" came the angry call as the driver drove past the, apparently, drunk man.

House shook his head and glanced back up at the lights – still red; something moved in the corner of his eye. It was the wandering man, and he was slowly making his way over towards him. _Oh great…_

He revved the CBR's engine in the hope that this would startle the old man away. It didn't work; the tramp seemed desperate to get to him. The only thing hindering his efforts seemed to be an extremely pained gait and a severe limp. _I know how you feel, buddy… _House thought as he kept a wary eye on the man.

He was narrowly avoided by another two cars; two more sets of horns did nothing to deter him from his tracks. It was as though he was on a mission; he was close enough now, House could see the whites of his eyes. Which actually weren't that white, but were tinged with yellow. The vagabond seemed to be mumbling inarticulate sounds, getting louder as he grew closer.

"I have no money on me" House shouted, holding his hands out. The elderly bum kept on coming, dragging his left leg behind him, almost close enough to touch. With one last look at the lights, House threw caution to the wind; _better to get a ticket than to get pulled off your bike by a crazy man_. He kicked the bike into gear and sped off over the lights, leaving behind the desperate looking vagrant, who cried out angrily…

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By the next morning, the whole incident was forgotten about. The hours of exhausted slumber had cleared his mind for the time being. Although, not for long…

"Okay!" House exclaimed as he backed through the conference room doors, a cup of takeout coffee in one hand, and a bag of bagels in the other.

"Give me some good news. Tell me the patient died last night!" He put on a pleading face and watched Cameron for a reaction. To his disappointment, she merely ignored his comments and helpfully took the coffee and bagels from him so he could take off his jacket and unhook his cane from his arm. _Some people just can't help being nice _he thought, shaking his head at her in annoyance and sitting at the table with his team.

Foreman threw a file down under House's nose, opening it to the last page. "His BP is still in the tank, he's now on a respirator and he's still paralyzed" he rattled off, sounding very peeved. He didn't add that he'd been at the hospital all night desperately treating the poor guy for anything and everything, but House knew. It wasn't hard to tell from the slightly unkempt clothing, red worn eyes and empty coffee cups strewn about on the table.

House smirked at his underling's frustration, "Damn, and there I was thinking that me going home last night would _actually_ cure the guy…" he feigned his own irritation in the form of slapping the table with the palm of his hand and shaking his head.

The fact that Foreman seemed to be wrong about _his_ suggested treatment was almost comforting to House. It still gave him a chance to solve the case himself, making him feel less of a failure. "Let's try again, shall we?"

He stood and grabbed his bag of bagels out of reach from Chase, who was eyeing them hungrily. "You don't get a treat 'till you come up with a diagnosis" he stated childishly whilst placing the bag on top of the bookshelf.

"What can we get rid of…?" he muttered to himself, crossing diseases off the list. Chase and Cameron called out a number of conditions that had been ruled out by Foreman's treatment. _Well, at least one good thing came out of him staying here all night _House thought.

"So…" he turned to face his team and stopped short at the sight of a man standing at the conference room window. Not just any man – the Homeless guy.

"Shit." His team turned to look at what had their mentor so spooked. They half expected it to be Cuddy, but were instead faced with a dirty, bearded old man.

The vagrant was trying to force his way through the window, either too stupid or too impatient to find the door. Foreman and Chase stood up to assist the guy before he pushed the whole pane of glass through; Cameron stayed back, seeing the demented look in the vagabond's eyes and feeling uneasy.

House watched from the safety of the whiteboard as the tramp ignored Chase's offer of help and Foreman's restraining hand on his shoulder. He seemed to be focused entirely on House, as if nothing else mattered in the world. It was beyond creepy.

With a sickening howl, the elderly man grabbed his head and dropped to his knees. Chase stared open mouthed as the man collapsed further, writhed on the floor and eventually went still; Foreman held his hands up in an 'I didn't touch him' motion. Cameron put a hand over her mouth and stayed rooted to the spot, only moving when she heard House ordering a gurney over the internal phone system.

If he was spooked by this, he certainly wasn't going to let his team know in a hurry…

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Two hours after the tramp was admitted, House was still mystified over his own patient's ailment. Sitting in his office, his mind kept wondering to the vagrant who seemed to be more than just a little intent on getting to him. He'd refused to physically examine the tramp after his collapse, stating that he'd rather spend four hours in the clinic _'cos I'm less likely to catch anything_.

Whoever this man was, House didn't want to know. At least, he kept telling himself that. He was intrigued to find out how the man had found him, and why…_This is just too weird _he mused, flicking his glance up as Wilson entered, bringing food.

"Your homeless guy" Wilson started, speaking through a mouthful of sandwich; "Hepatocellular carcinoma _and_ Alzheimer's."

"He's not _my _homeless guy" House replied agitatedly, stealing a handful of chips from Wilson's unguarded plate. "No matter how pleased he was to see me again."

"Nice" Wilson acknowledged, pulling his plate onto his lap in an attempt at rescuing a few chips for himself.

House frowned, not sure if Wilson's was praising his deftly chip-stealing ability or..."What?"

Wilson paused, mid-bite; "The homeless guy – he's blind" he stated, matter-of-factly.

House was stunned. _Blind. Blind? _"He's blind?" _He hadn't seemed blind…but then, he did almost get himself run over last night – but how did he find you if he's blind? Coincidence? _'Coincidence' wasn't a word House would use readily; it left a lot of unanswered questions and was generally the lazy answer.

"House?" Wilson repeated, trying to get his friend's attention; "You okay?"

The older man nodded unconvincingly, leaning back into his chair with a glazed over expression before snapping out of it and meeting Wilson's worried gaze. "Hepatocellular carcinoma isn't a diagnosis. It's most likely metastasised from somewhere else…"

"Yes, which is exactly why I came in here for lunch" Wilson smirked playfully; "I just wanted to hear you say, yet again, that you know more about cancer than I do."

"You thought of that already." House concluded, unable to hide his admiration for his friend's inane ability to take him with a pinch of salt. "Is he still here?"

Wilson nodded, taking another bite of his sandwich. "We admitted him. He hasn't got long left. He'll be dead within a week – we can wait for the autopsy results to find out what specific type of cancer he has" he said confidently, yet covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Even when he was talking with his mouth full in an attempt at appearing rebellious, he was still haunted by the good manners and grace that declared him a 'good boy'.

House pretended to be shocked at his little display of 'badness'; "I thought you were the nice one…" he muttered accusingly.

"I thought _you_ weren't" Wilson countered, pointing suspiciously at his friend. "What's got you so spooked?" He didn't give House a chance to reply before he picked up on something else that was bugging him; "and why did you say: no matter how pleased he was to see you _again_?"

House sighed, "I saw him last night, on my way home. He came up to me when I was waiting at the lights, downtown. I thought he was after money or something…"

Wilson frowned, thinking about how long it would have taken the guy to walk from downtown to PPTH. It was at least four miles, and the man was in no shape to crawl, let alone walk. From the smell of him, no one would have accepted him as a hitcher. He didn't come by ambulance. "Are you sure?" He hated questioning House, but surely he was mistaken this time?

"You're right. Maybe it was some _other_ homeless drunk who was desperate to see me." House was becoming snappy and disgruntled; which, as always, was Wilson's cue to either apologise or leave. "I usually get followed by a small army's worth of tramps – this one must have broken free."

"I'm just saying…maybe this _is_ another guy." Wilson reasoned, in an attempt at keeping himself in House's good books. "The whole thing could just be a giant coincide-"

"Don't say it!" House exclaimed, pulling himself out of the chair and grabbing his cane. Nothing was a coincidence – ever. The need to investigate was now too strong to ignore. His critically ill patient could wait; this blind, homeless guy was _far_ more interesting.

Wilson furrowed his brow in confusion as the Diagnostician limped past him; "Where are you going?" _So much for a quiet lunch…_

"Well, I've got to see him now, haven't I?" he huffed in reply, grabbing the paper plate from Wilson's lap and dumping it in his bin. "Lunch is over."

Wilson sighed, dragging himself up to follow the other man closely; his own curiosity was steering him to believe that maybe House was serious about this poor beggar. He called out the room number and let the limping man lead the way, unaware that House already knew exactly where the vagrant was; he'd been cautiously avoiding the room all morning. Something about crazy, 'stalker tramps' just didn't do it for him.

In an act of extraordinary chivalry, House slid the door open and motioned for Wilson to enter before him. This warranted an amusing look of confusion from the Oncologist as he passed by and entered the quiet room.

There was something about the unconscious man positioned in the bed that worried the older Doc. So much so, he refused to follow Wilson into the room; he settled himself, leaning by the doorpost, trying to look casual as Wilson automatically double checked the nameless man's stats.

After a few minutes of simply staring at the guys face from the sanctuary of the doorway, House had to move when Wilson got a phone call on the nurse's station. This gave the Diagnostician a chance to indulge in his morbid curiosity without an audience; he didn't want Wilson to think he was scared of the frail looking man, did he? _He's just a homeless tramp. He's doped up on pain meds. Don't be such a wuss _he thought as he slid the door closed behind him. _Just ask him what he wants from you, and then leave. _

He circled the bed, slowly, glancing up at the monitors when the patient's heart rate leapt dramatically. "What the-" he jumped back, though not soon enough, as a scarred hand grabbed him by the wrist. _Oh crap! _

His cane clattered to the floor as he struggled against the remarkably strong hold that the Vagrant had over him. "Let go!" he ordered through gritted teeth, unable to hide the crack in his voice as the grip merely grew stronger. It was getting to the point of his hand becoming numb with the force around his wrist. He managed to slide his hand partly from the grip; the tramp's hand was now fiercely crushing his own. _Bad idea... _

He looked from his hand, to the tramp's face, gasping in agony as he felt bones cracking in his left hand. Above the screaming of the heart monitor and the howling coming from his own lips, House heard the man try to speak. He grunted, forcing himself to stop making any noise, just so he could hear what the man was trying to say. He caught several words: "You're him…the one…healer…touch."

"What?" House had never been so confused in his entire life. He hated it. _How the hell is he this strong? _he thought desperately, struggling to rip his hand free from the intensifying hold. _There goes the piano playing _he thought, feeling another bone snap and grind against the mess of the others. _Somebody get in here! _

"You're the healer!" the vagrant proclaimed in a hissed, manic voice, before his eyes rolled back in his head and his hand unexpectedly released House's hand from his death grip.

House felt a sharp shock shoot up his left arm as he fell backwards; he inadvertently stumbled onto his bad leg, which buckled under him, leaving him to land flat on his back and gasping desperately for air. Almost immediately, he turned onto his side and retched pathetically. When the brief spurt of nausea passed, he protectively cradled his wounded limb against his chest and groaned wretchedly. _This is why you don't visit patients. _

He distantly heard the high pitched wail from the O2 sats monitor calling out for help; he concluded that during his struggle with the crazy man, the clip must have been knocked off of his finger.

Within seconds, a tirade of nurses burst into the room, followed by an extremely concerned looking Wilson; the nurses tended to the now-unconscious patient and the doctor tended to his trembling friend.

"House! What happened?" he asked hurriedly, kneeling down by the older doctor. "Are you hurt?" he did a quick visual check, taking in House's red faced appearance and wounded posture.

House gulped in a few deep breaths and held up his hand for Wilson to see; "Just my…" he trailed off as he saw the perfect, unbroken, left hand before his eyes. He gaped in astonishment… _What the hell just happened?_

TBC…


	2. Part Two

**Author's Note: My fanfic writing days could be numbered. I've got a job interview tomorrow that could bring an end to my life of relative leisure…I figure I should make the most of my current working conditions and update like crazy over the next month! Who agrees? x **

House released a sigh of enormous relief as he finally entered his apartment. He didn't know how he'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon after the shock of…_Well, what the hell did happen _he wondered, for about the hundredth time that day.

Wilson had caught him glaring perplexedly at his left hand, on more than one occasion during the afternoon; House had eventually gotten tired of his persistent questioning and had announced his leave at approximately three o'clock. He'd showered at work after getting the distinct feeling that as soon as he arrived home, he'd collapse on his sofa, never to get up. He felt physically drained. _Everything _ached, and his head was killing him with a thousand questions he just _knew_ he couldn't answer.

He sighed, throwing his bike keys over to the bureau and missing completely. _Jeez, you really are wound up…can't even throw straight, let alone think! _He leant over to pick up the offending keys, letting out an audible groan as his back punished him for the action. He imagined that there were eighty year olds who felt more mobile than he did right now.

He abandoned his cane by the front door, choosing to use the furniture to manoeuvre himself through the apartment. He spared his left hand another glance, just checking to see if it had fallen off yet. _Nope, still normal…no bruising, no bones sticking out in random places…just normal. _

He limped languidly through to the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers in an attempt at finding something quick, easy and dead to cook for dinner. Coming up trumps with a packet of macaroni cheese, that had been festering in one particular drawer for as long as he could remember; he slid a pan of water on the hob and lit it, ready for the boil. The instant snack should hold him through to breakfast; failing that, he could always pick up some more bagels…

Glancing over to Steve's cage, he was gently reminded that he'd forgotten to feed him that morning; the gentle reminder coming from the fact that the rat had chewed through the top of his water bottle in protest. _I'm pretty sure your stomach's gonna find it hard to digest all that plastic. _

Wincing, House reached over to pull the bottle from the cage, in the vain hope that maybe it was repairable. He'd fixed worse. It was at this point that his back retaliated against this range of motion, causing him to jerk forwards involuntarily and push the cage from its position on the counter.

House cursed angrily, straightening himself back up and using the tabletop to help him get over to the messy cage-carnage. _So much for fixing things, you've just created a disaster area..._he thought, hopping on his good leg.

It was at this point he heard the heart wrenching squeals coming from his only pet; his hand scrambled through the wrecked cage, eventually coming into contact with the furry rodent who was hiding under a pile of torn newspaper.

"Sorry…oh crap" he kept Steve gripped gently, yet securely in his left hand, using the right to prop his bad leg off the floor. The squealing was enough to pierce the hardest of hearts, no exceptions. House mumbled softly to the wounded animal, feeling helpless and guilty. He didn't know much of the rodent anatomy, but he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be able to feel his pet's ribs so bent out of shape against his fingers.

"Sorry buddy…I'd fix you if I could…but I'm a doctor, not a Vet…please be okay…shit!" he felt the shooting pain in his arm again, and it blinded him, causing him to drop Steve on the tabletop and curse profusely. He found that when he shook his hand out, as if drying it, the pain receded enough for him to take a deep breath and relax a little.

_Phew, what the hell happened there?_ he thought, leaning heavily on the table. He recognised the shooting pain in his arm as the same one that occurred earlier. It was enough to put to rest Wilson's coincidence theory. Nothing is a coincidence. He straightened up, gasping as his body screamed out at him.

Now there was a new pain. It ran through his rib cage, up his shoulder and down his arm. Stranger than _that_, he spotted Steve running around on the table top completely pain free and content. _What the hell…is going on? _House wondered, staring at his hand as though it would drop off at any minute.

The pain in his side steadily subsided, along with the twitch in his hand. _Maybe you got an electric shock from something…maybe…but not likely._ He stared at Steve, waiting for the inevitable squeal of pain to return. Nothing…_He's okay…but how?_

Boiled water sizzling over the top of the deep pan onto the hob brought him out of his silent stupor and forced him to rush over to save what he could to cook his meal. After re-housing Steve and successfully cooking something resembling edible food, House slunk off to bed. His mind firing questions at him that couldn't possibly be answered.

He soon found that his busy mind couldn't compete with complete exhaustion, and sleep came only too easily. He drifted off, ears picking up the sound of the rat running on his wheel. He was perfectly content, and injury free.

When House awoke the next morning, he was no closer to the truth than he'd been when he'd settled down the previous night. He had to get to work; he had to tell Wilson…and he needed to find out just how crazy the homeless man really was. _He must know what's going on…_ "Yeah, I'm sure the whole dementia thing is just a clever ruse" he mumbled sarcastically to himself as he pulled on his pants.

He gave Steve a quick examination before leaving for work, just to satisfy his own curiosity. It almost disappointed him to see that the rat was perfectly normal. It still had one head, four legs and a tail. He hadn't grown to preposterous proportions. He hadn't shrunk to the size of a safety pin. He couldn't talk, and he was still insisting on chewing his water bottle. Everything seemed...perfectly normal.

He finally left the apartment, dissatisfied with the finding that his pet hadn't turned into an alien overnight, but pleased he was still relatively healthy after his impromptu skydiving session. He couldn't silence the nagging voices in his head. They'd already determined that either something mysterious was going on, or he was losing his mind. He didn't like either option...

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His team was onto him as soon as he entered the conference room. His patient was still dying, and none of them were any closer to finding out why. He was a faithful, active father of five, who also happened to be married to a lawyer. House had already come to the conclusion that he was miserable, and really knew what was wrong with him, he just didn't want to be cured and go back to the hellhole that was his life. Unfortunately, this was neither a diagnosis, nor a cure.

"We ruled out cancer because it didn't fit," Foreman started, looking to House for answers, "but what if we're not seeing the bigger picture?"

"Unless the bigger picture includes a painful and pointless death, I don't think there is one" House countered, reaching out to take a cup of coffee from Cameron in a well practised manoeuvre. She walks one way, he walks the other, and at some point the red mug exchanges hands. No fuss, no thanks, no problem. Not today.

She pulled it back at the last minute, forcing House to stop, and then take a few steps back. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, just as he successfully grabbed the mug from her.

He opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, only to close it again when he looked down at his hand. It was bruised. It was _so_ bruised, it looked almost looked completely purple. A cough from Chase brought him out of his silent stupor. "I trapped it in a drawer" he lied unconvincingly, earning a scoff from Foreman.

"Funny. We heard you got beaten by a tramp" Chase smirked, quickly pretending to be engrossed in the patient's file when House glared at him.

"Does it hurt?" asked Cameron, craning her neck to examine it without getting her head bitten off.

_It doesn't, does it? _"No." _You didn't even notice the bruise 'till now…_House abruptly clunked his red mug down on the table and stormed towards the door. If there was something strange going on, he could only think of one person who knew what it was. The Tramp.

"Where are you going?" Chase cried. He didn't need another day of simply monitoring the patient in the hope that he'd get better without a diagnosis and treatment.

"Round Two" came the reply.

"What about the patient?" Cameron called, stopping House in his tracks.

He turned to face them all, and stated solemnly, "He'll just have to wait in line." _Besides, he's not nearly as interesting as this guy… _

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After scouting the area surrounding it, House entered the Vagrant's room. The man wasn't there. He frowned, heading straight over to the nearby nurse's station; he slammed his hand down on the desk to grab the elderly nurse's attention, wincing as it sent a shock up his arm. _Ouch…don't do that again!_

"Dr House" the nurse acknowledged warily, inwardly praying that he'd stop making such a racket.

"Where's the old guy gone?" he asked gruffly, hiding his panic by persistently bouncing his cane off the vinyl flooring. The nurse sighed, giving up on her paperwork; clearly she wouldn't get any work done until she'd given this infuriating man everything he wanted.

"I'm afraid he passed away, last night" she produced a chart and noted the time, "at midnight, exactly."

"Is he really dead, or did he just turn into a pumpkin?" House asked earnestly, attempting to cover his disappointment at the news with some snark. _He's dead…gone...and he's taken his damned secret with him... _

The nurse glanced up, unsure whether she was supposed to laugh at the joke or not; she settled for a confused frown, relaxing her features as the gruff doctor abruptly about-faced and limp off down the hall.

"Wilson!" House called, bursting in on the Head of Oncology who was busy monitoring a patient. The Diagnostician did a quick mental scan of the room; _dark room, no crash cart nearby, loads of pain meds, patient is comatose…obviously terminal. _"Why didn't you tell me about the homeless guy?" he asked accusingly, laying his cane beside the terminal patient and leaning arrogantly against the bed.

Wilson briefly glanced up from his charting; "I wasn't aware you two were so close" he stated lightly, turning his back on the other doctor in favour of switching an IV bag over. "The way you were looking at him yesterday, anyone would think it was you that killed him" he added, missing the petrified look that came over House at that joke.

"Wilson…" _C'mon Wilson…I need to tell you before I start to believe I'm going crazy here! _"We need to talk."

"Lunchtime, House" Wilson replied distantly, crouching down to check the urine output of his cancer patient. "It can wait 'till then, right?"

_No it can't! This is the strangest thing that's ever happened to me and you're more interested in checking some almost-dead guy's pee!_

"Look…" House held up his hand and paused as the colour had once more returned to a healthy pink. "Uh...I need to ask you something..."

"Seriously, lunch is only a couple of hours away." Wilson turned away again, taking readings from the monitors.

House sighed and made a grab for his cane, accidentally brushing his left hand against the comatose man's hand in the process. _If you were healthy, he wouldn't like you, and he'd listen to me-_

_Ow! _It was happening again. Despite House's best efforts in removing his hand from the area, the flash of pain seemed to arc and paralyse his senses. He felt a cold sensation rush over his entire body as the buzz stopped abruptly, causing him to stumble back and land against the wall with an "Oomph!"

"House!" Wilson cried anxiously, making his way round the bed. He stopped suddenly when the monitors beside the cancer patient started screeching wildly. His patient was waking up…waking up? _He shouldn't be able to wake up with that amount of medication running through his veins. _He wasn't supposed to wake up…ever again. "House, what did you do?" he trailed off when he saw the space, where his friend had been, was now empty.

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House stumbled, limping as fast as his leg would allow him with no cane, to the male restroom. He practically fell through the door, almost unhinging it in his haste. After dragging his right leg over to the sink, he slammed his right hand down on the tap, switching the water on in a furiously fast flow.

He splashed the cool liquid over his face and stared at himself in the large mirror; his pale, panting reflection did nothing to calm him down. His left hand was trembling uncontrollably, and it felt almost...numb. _What's wrong with me? _he thought desperately, unable to contain the hitch in his breath, and another…and another.

Everything in the room began to melt around him. Colours swirled, and then simply melded together into big, black balls of darkness. The spots that now danced in front of his eyes, reminded him of a time when he'd gotten knocked out during a lacrosse game in his youth. He could feel the realms of reality slipping away, dragging his strength with it.

It wasn't long before he found it impossible to breathe at all. He was dimly aware of someone entering the bathroom and talking sternly to him before his legs gave way completely. He slumped against the tiled floor with the help of welcome, strong hands under his armpits.

Darkness seemed to be the best place for him…unconsciousness seemed to be the only thing that made sense to him…cold, clinical and unavoidable unconsciousness.

TBC…


	3. Part Three

**Author's Note: I got the job I interviewed for on Friday - so, one month left of updating like crazy...then I'll probably only get a chance to write/update at the weekends. I'll try and update Hush at work tomorow - make the most of my easy job while I still can! Enjoy! x**

* * *

Wilson frowned worriedly as House came to with a gasp. He tried, to no avail, to keep his friend from sitting up on the gurney. "House, just stay there - at least let us take a look at you-"

"I'm fine - get the hell off me" the Diagnostician snapped to the young intern who happened to be pinning his arms down in a restraining fashion. Wilson rolled his eyes exasperatedly, and moved over to help the stubborn man from the high bed. He also had the good grace to get rid of his two helpers before things turned nasty.

"In your hurry to leave, you forgot this" he said, handing House his cane. House at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he took it from his hands. "Are you going to at least tell me what's going on?" he asked, regarding the other man's silence with caution.

House looked everywhere but at Wilson as he mumbled some crap about a panic attack. He noted the familiar bathroom door, indicating that he hadn't been out for long because they'd only managed to get him out into the hallway. You were out _long enough to get Wilson addled… _

"House," Wilson forced him to pause in his survey of the area. He snapped his head back and met the Oncologist's worried eyes, waiting for the inevitable question. "What's going on?"

House measured up every possible answer before inwardly sighing. "I don't know," he replied quietly, "but I know someone who does." He limped off towards the nearby elevator, albeit slightly unsteadily, and pressed the call button whilst leaning heavily on the wall for support. He felt as though he'd had an anvil dropped on his head. He waited for the roadrunner to show up.

True to form, it didn't take long for Wilson to join him. "Who are you going to see?"

"An old friend," House muttered, "he owes me an explanation, dead or not."

"The homeless guy," Wilson said disbelievingly, "You're going to the basement, to speak to a dead man. You need to be checked over-"

"I'm fine. It was just a panic attack." House insisted, glaring at a couple of nurses who were gawping at him from down the hall.

"Oh cut the crap!" Wilson snorted angrily, making House flinch slightly. He couldn't fool the younger man with that kind of brush off. "You haven't had a panic attack in your life."

House glanced up at the numbers above the elevator doors, willing it to arrive quicker. "What do you want me to tell you?" he asked, throwing Wilson completely with the question. _That I think I'm losing my mind. That I think some homeless man cursed me? _

"I want you," Wilson began calmly, "to tell me what just happened back there."

"I passed out-" House started, frowning as he caught Wilson shaking his head. Obviously not the answer he was looking for.

"Before that…what did you do to my patient?" he hissed, following House into the empty elevator as the doors opened.

"I didn't - I only touched him, and then I tripped - had to get some air…" House stumbled over the words. _You cant explain it because you don't have a clue what you did to him - or what he did to you! _he thought worriedly.

Wilson gave him a skeptical look. He was used to hearing his friend lie, but this was ridiculous. House hadn't even decided what his story was. "What did you give him?" he asked again.

Realisation dawned on House. _He thinks you actually did something to wake his stupid cancer patient up. _"I didn't _give_ him anything" House whined pitifully. He felt like the child who'd been found peering over the surviving pieces of a broken vase and been dubbed the culprit by an angry parent, regardless of his innocence.

"I know you like messing with your own patients - but how am I going to explain to Mr Porter's wife that he's suddenly awake? I only told her last week that he would be gone soon. What did you give him? Drugs? I don't understand how you managed to get him up…No, I don't want to know…" he trailed of with a groan, putting his head in his hands.

"If you're so worried, why aren't you with him?" House asked, testily, wondering how he was possibly going to convince Wilson that he hadn't done anything to his precious cancer patient.

"Brown's with him," Wilson replied, "I was more worried about _you_, running off without your cane and collapsing in my arms two minutes later in the men's room."

House winced at the thought. _Yeah, I'm a little worried about that too…_he thought, watching the numbers decrease steadily above the doors. 3, 2, 1, G, B…

The elevator completed its decent with a shudder. House pushed himself away from his position by the far wall, taking each step with suspicious caution as he tackled the small staircase down to the self-contained morgue. Wilson followed, failing to keep the mixture of annoyance, worry and exasperation from his face.

"What, exactly, are you hoping to find?" he asked, sensing House's air of determination as he scanned the name cards for one 'John Doe'.

House ignored the question as he found the right drawer. He stared at it, swallowing nervously as he started to have second thoughts about wanting to see the guy again. "I hear you can see them a lot better if you slid the drawer open." Wilson deadpanned, stepping forward to pull it open, but finding himself rewarded with a cane-jab to the chest.

"Hold this." House ordered, keeping the cane up for Wilson to take. "You wouldn't be able to pull this baby out, not with _your_ back" he defended lightly, pushing his fear back to allow the false bravado to take over. _How can you be scared of a dead guy? Didn't you say the same thing about him when he was alive…_

House slid the drawer open in one speedy motion, working on the basis that it was like pulling off a band aid. Do it quick, get it over with, get on with your life.

It didn't stop him from sucking in a shocked breath as the Vagrant's torso rigidly sat up straight without the inside of the cubicle to hold it down. _Rigor mortis. Rigor mortis. Rigor mortis _House's mind was screaming at him, accompanying his racing heart.Luckily, he heard Wilson curse at the sight too, making him feel less like a jumpy idiot.

"Help me get him back down" he growled, using the new platform to lean his hands on for support. Wilson hooked the cane onto the handle of a nearby drawer, then stepped over to the other side of the body awaiting further instruction. "Heads or tails?" House called, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"You actually have a preference?" Wilson asked disbelievingly.

"_No_, but I thought you might, what with over half of your patients ending up here." House replied, "Luckily, I don't get down to visit these parts of the hospital…much."

"Are you trying to insult me, or impress me?" Wilson muttered under his breath, moving to the Vagrant's legs. He held them down as House started to gingerly push the nameless man's shoulder back down on the cold, flat surface.

He paused for a moment to examine the subject's back; the spine was a mess. It had all the characteristics of one that had been broken so many times, it had healed in all the wrong places. In fact, it didn't looked like it had finished healing at all. The way it jutted out unhealthily from the subject's back was particularly gruesome and gave House a twinge in his own back he could only put down as a sympathy pain!

He snapped himself out of his musings and forced the stiff body back into a prone position, doing his best to ignore the fact that the sheet had slipped down and the tramp's face was far too close to his own for comfort. His last memory of that face was followed by bright light, intense pain and a lot of strange, unanswered questions. Not something he wanted to relive in a hurry.

Wilson cleared his throat, wanting to know what the next step would be. Hanging out in the hospital's morgue wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, and judging by the paleness of his friend, it wasn't a pleasant experience for House either.

"Just want to sneak a peek," House said, "It's my new morbid fascination with death…"

"You couldn't have chosen a hobby less…disgusting?" Wilson asked lightly, taking House's deflection with a pinch of salt. He knew there was something going on, and he also knew House wouldn't be down here if he wasn't looking for something. The answer seemed to jump out at both of them when House pulled the sheet back a little further, revealing the vagabond's battered torso.

"Shit…" The exclamation left his mouth without a coherent thought to accompany it. House couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone in such bad shape, even in a morgue!

The first thing to cross his mind was that this 'old man' wasn't old at all. In fact, judging by the condition he was in, he couldn't be a day over fifty - and in House's books, that was young. Too young. Too old to rock and roll, but far too young to be homeless, have Alzheimer's _and_ metastasized lung cancer, then die.

The series of scars and severely mangled bones that jutted out at sickening angles were enough to ensure House's curiosity felt generously rewarded. He wondered how to interpret these findings. He glanced up at Wilson, he also looked puzzled. "I, uh…they didn't mention this in the charts…" he said, pulling his eyes away from a particularly crooked looking collarbone to look House in the eye.

"Why would they," House replied, "he's just some homeless bum, right? They probably assumed he got beaten for breakfast…literally" he saw Wilson's jaw tense at this flippant remark. _Oh crap, reminder to self: no matter how much he denies it, Wilson has a thing about homeless people _he mused, thinking back to the little 'act' that Wilson had put on for his amusement earlier, flippantly telling House that the Vagrant would be dead within a week.

"These are old," House stated, attempting to draw Wilson from thoughts of his own personal homeless demons by pointing to a series of jagged, sunken scars along the dead man's abdomen, "_really_ old."

"Yeah…" Wilson agreed, sliding the sheet up to the man's thighs to reveal more deep scars, bent bones and poorly manipulated joints. "How the hell did he walk from downtown?" he asked before being interrupted by an insistent beeping from his pager. "I've got to take this…" he said with a frown, stalking off determinedly to find a phone.

House barely registered the words as he mulled over the previous question. _How the hell did he get here from downtown? _From what House could tell from the meagre physical examination, the man had severely shattered at least one of his knee caps, the other looked no better. If he hadn't witnessed it himself, he wouldn't have believed that this guy could crawl, let alone walk.

He lightly traced his fingers up the inside of the vagrant's calf muscle, noting the indents and apparent muscle waste, that should have crippled the man completely, especially coupled with the arthritic ankle bones. This unnamed bum had scars that put his own to shame. He stepped back, feeling a bout of nausea cloak him as he let his mind wander back to everything that had happened since this vagrant had appeared on the scene. He steadied himself on the side of the drawer, swallowing thickly.

_Calm down, you idiot. Nothing's happened, you're just worrying over nothing. It's this damned case, and three days of insomnia. This is your mind's way of telling you to take a break! _He blew out a shaky breath as he heard Wilson walking back down the steps. He managed to get it together as his friend returned to his position on the opposite side of the body.

"Okay, we came, we indulged - time to go!" House said light-heartedly, just about hiding the hitch in his voice. "You can push him back…" he trailed off as he looked up at Wilson. The Oncologist was back, in body, but his mind was clearly still on the phone. He was even paler than the guy on the slab, and that was hard considering the other guy had been dead for over twelve hours…

House frowned, "What?" he asked, taking in Wilson's slacked jaw look. It was a look he received often, usually from his fellows, more specifically from Chase. Never from Wilson…

The younger man snapped out of it, as though he'd just realised he had company. "My…err, that was Brown - the patient is…has…showing no signs" he shook his head, House seriously reconsidered his opinion that Wilson was well articulated. "He doesn't have cancer." he announced, his voice falling to a whisper by the word 'have'.

"Very funny." House replied, getting a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach when Wilson failed to get to a punch line, or crack a smile.

"He's gone into complete remission."

"Brown's an idiot, he probably hasn't even tested-"

"They've done an MRI" Wilson interrupted, "and they're not leaving Radiology 'till they've found it."

"So…he'll find it, because it's there - you found it to begin with, right?" House didn't like what he was hearing. Maybe Wilson had misdiagnosed the patient…unlikely. How many tests did one patient have to go through to determine that they were going to die from a tumour? He assumed at some point, they'd double check…

"House…the tumour was inoperable. It was killing him. It was big enough to see with an _ultrasound_….and that's the first thing they used." Wilson said hurriedly, giving him another pleading look. "What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything to him…" And _yet, you managed cure him…_

_TBC…_


	4. Part Four

The ride back up from the basement was silent and awkward. Wilson seemed lost in his thoughts, so House decided not to press matters further. He had to get things straight in his own mind before he started trying to explain things to his friend. He needed to get his team to run some tests on this miracle man first, he wanted proof – not some quick scans and an 'Oh My God, you're cured!' proclamation. Clinical proof.

It was due to his unfurling mind, he had the bad luck to run into Cuddy as he made his way back from checking his own patient, who was still critically ill. He glanced around, searching out an escape route before surrendering to her wrath. He considered suggesting that she tattoo 'House. Clinic. Now!' on her forehead, but soon changed his mind as she dragged him to the side of the corridor by his elbow. She did not look happy.

"Dr Cuddy-" he started, attempting to charm her.

"Listen!" she cut him off before he could even begin to talk his way out it. "Either you _did_ give this patient something, in which case you're lucky he didn't _die_," she pointed a menacing finger at him, "or, you're actually being honest, for a change, and you didn't." she paused, taking in his non-committal reaction. "Either way, I've got the patient's family coming in an hour, Wilson is having a breakdown because he thinks he's going to be sued, and I need people in the clinic. And by people, I mean you."

"Dr Cuddy – I don't know what to say!" Cuddy rolled her eyes at House's show; she didn't have time for this. "I told you before – I'm just not _into_ bondage! If you want me to do clinic duty, all you have to do is ask!" several nurses giggled at that exclamation.

"Just go." Cuddy managed to growl through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to slap that smirk from his face.

House made his way, agonizingly slowly, down to the clinic. _At least you'll be able to think down there, without being interrogated by your team every five minutes... _

He picked up his first chart and entered the exam room, finding his first patient to be an overweight, forty something year old woman...with heartburn. _Oh brother... _

"So, lets recap," he said after hearing her tale of pathetic woe, "You get a _pain_, near your _heart_, after _eating_ and especially while you try and _sleep_..." the woman nodded. "So you thought it would be a good idea to take a day off work to come here, rather than spend ten minutes in a pharmacy?" the woman stopped nodding.

"Huh?" It was obviously a more complex question that House originally thought.

"You've tried the over-the-counter stuff?" he asked hopefully, twisting on his stool to grab a stethoscope.

"Oh no, I'd have to pay if I used that – if I get it here, I can claim it back on my medical insurance." she replied matter-of-factly.

House stared at her blankly, snapping out of it when the woman cleared her throat. She was beginning to regret seeing this strange doctor. "What about the day you took off work to come here? I'm hazarding a wild guess here, but I think you've probably _lost_ more money than you've saved." he said, inwardly rolling his eyes in exasperation.

The woman frowned, apparently she hadn't thought of it that way. "Oh..."

"Since you came all this way, it'd be cruel not to examine you, wouldn't it?" the woman nodded again, not taking the sarcasm as it was originally intended. _I'm surprised you don't have a bad neck too...dangerous thing, all that mundane agreeing with absolutely everything. _

He wheeled himself over to where she was positioned on the examination bed, motioning for her to pull her top down slightly. _Just check her heart, give her a script and get her out. Or..._he looked at his left hand, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

He pressed the stethoscope piece against her chest with his right hand, hesitantly moving his left up to hold it on. He felt the, now familiar, beginnings of something charging through his fingertips. This was it. The woman gasped as she felt a sharp jolt in her chest, House recoiled with his arm cradled protectively against his chest.

He quickly recovered, "Wow, did you feel that? I think it was static from this damned stool!" he feigned shock as he tore off a script. "Take this, twice a day." The woman stared at the script, puzzled. "For your heartburn..." House clarified. The woman nodded, again. "Goodbye." _Take the hint! Leave! _

As she left, House frowned. _There has to be a better way to prove the theory._ He didn't plan to follow the fat lady around just to see if the heartburn ever returned. He needed something physical. Something that he could see. Something like...

He grinned as the next patient hobbled in. _Something exactly like that. _The young man had clearly sprained something, maybe even broken something. House had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together in anticipation as the boy limped unsteadily over to the gurney.

"What happened to you?" he asked expectantly, holding his hand out for the young man's chart.

"I, uh...broke up with my girlfriend," the boy stammered, clearly in more pain than he wanted to admit, "and she – she...ran over my foot with her mom's car-"

"How big was the car?" House asked tentatively, yet unable to hide the gleam in his eye. _Please be something big. _

The boy looked a little confused. "It was – one of those – Ford Explorer things."

"An SUV?" House couldn't believe his luck, this guys foot was broken for sure. "Oh yeah!" he said triumphantly, quickly putting his best serious face on to regard the patient. "There's a good chance there's no damage to your foot." he said sincerely.

"Are you kidding, doc? I heard the bones snap!" the boy paled as he recalled the sound that came from his foot falling victim to the large car. "I think I'm going to be sick..."

"Were you wearing sneakers?" House asked, ignoring the peculiar shade of white that his patient had taken as he pulled the sock from his foot. The boy answered in the affirmative, stealing a glance at what the doctor was doing.

"It's fixable." House lied. _Whoa! Nasty – I'm surprised you managed to get here on this mangled mess! _"Just tilt your head back" the boy complied, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm gonna crack it back into shape, just don't pass out."

_Okay, this is it. Full, undeniable, physical proof. _House took a deep breath and grasped the young man's foot in his left hand, ignoring the yelp of surprise that came with the contact. The pain shot up his arm with more force this time, almost choking him. When it became too much, he broke contact, slouching forward and gasping for air.

"Wow!" the boy's voice drew him back to reality. "What did you do?" he sounded elated. It must have worked. House looked up, squinting against the bright exam room lights. The foot. It was fixed. All that remained was some residual bruising. He'd done it. _Holy shit...are you sure you're ready for this? _

He ripped off another script. "For the pain" he rasped, holding it out in his right hand for the youth to take. His left hand was taking it's time to recover, trembling and feeling uncomfortably numb.

"What pain? You fixed it." the boy smiled, patting House on the shoulder before striding confidently out of the room, still wearing only one shoe.

House stared at his hand, willing it to stop shaking. The tremor was really beginning to annoy him...as well as being slightly concerning. He looked up to find Wilson staring at him, a frown plastered over his face. "Was that guy _smiling_?" he asked, screwing his face into an even bigger frown at the possibility.

House smirked despite himself. "I gave him $20 to leave me alone." he lied, rolling himself over to the far wall on the stool. "Do you need something? 'Cos some of us are trying to work here..." House desperately wanted to try out his new toy on more patients; Wilson's presence was getting in his way.

"I'm hiding." Wilson admitted, closing the door behind him as he entered.

"Yeah, in a clinic. This is the last place anyone would even dream of looking for a doctor." House stated, frowning at the way his friend simply nodded in agreement. "What?"

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Wilson asked, folding his arms over his chest. "They're opening an inquiry, questioning my entire department – they want to know how I managed to screw up such a clear cut case..." he hissed, pointing to the door. _Uh oh...this is one of those 'us and them' conversations _House thought, avoiding eye contact with Wilson completely. _Emotional blackmail;, Wilson's own personal interrogation technique. _

"I came here, hoping that you'd own up – admit to giving him something, or dosing him...or..." he blew out an annoyingly shaky breath. House managed to keep his tongue under control, refraining from telling Wilson to stop being so melodramatic. "The board is investigating my entire department, I don't even know what they expect to find!" Wilson sighed. He'd been mulling over it long enough, and it still didn't make sense. He'd convinced himself that House would know what happened.

"You didn't screw up. The board has no right to investigate you, or your department." House tried to be reassuring, Wilson wasn't buying it.

"How can you explain a terminally ill man waking up from inoperable lung cancer? Cancer I diagnosed, _myself_!"

"Spontaneous Remission…?" House suggested quietly, ducking when Wilson threw his hands up in exasperation. _Jesus, calm down before you have a heart attack! _

"You – there's no way…" Wilson spluttered, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. _His weepy pose._

"Oh, don't be like that." House said angrily, dragging himself from his sitting position and starting to pace. He faltered slightly on the first step, quickly recovering and using it to add to his apparent frustration at Wilson. "You want me to admit to something that I didn't do, just so you don't get sued by this 'poor' guy's family?" he turned to face Wilson, who was watching him intently, "He didn't _die_! They should be sending you a fruit basket, not serving you with a lawsuit!" Wilson was staring at him intently now, frowning at the Diagnostician's anger.

"You haven't even been to see him, since he woke up," he started, slowly coming to his own realisation, "You've sent your team, you've asked for tests, you haven't even asked about the patient…"

"Why would I? He's healthy-"

"_Because_ he's healthy; because he's cured; because you were the last person to see him dying; because he's an _anomaly_." Wilson was growing steadily louder, making House increasingly uncomfortable. "You haven't been to see him, because you _know_ why he's cured." he paused, waiting for confirmation.

House wavered his gaze between Wilson's hideously ugly tie and a tuft of hair that seemed to be rebelling against his otherwise meticulous hairstyle. When he finally did make eye contact with his accuser, he spoke slowly and forcefully. "I did not give him _anything_. No amount of useless testing will change that fact. I don't need to see him. He's not ill." he broke eye contact in favour of glaring at his left hand.

"Maybe you _did_ make a mistake." he concluded, missing the look of hurt that flashed over the Oncologist's face before he turned to get out of the room. The fact that House was adamant about not giving his patient anything wasn't convincing enough for Wilson. He had a feeling his so-called-friend was hiding something. _If that's how he wants to play it… _

"Maybe that's not the only mistake I've made." the younger man hissed in return, slamming the door behind him. No other statement shouted 'You're on your own, buddy!' as much as that one.

House sat heavily back onto the stool, his mind screaming at him. _What the hell are you doing? _"If he doesn't know about it, he can't stop you." _And if he gets his license suspended? _"For what? He's done nothing wrong!" _Yeah…that's why you're arguing about it with yourself…_ "Good point."

House groaned. This wasn't going well at all. Now, being on the wrong side of Wilson, he had no one to turn to. _What if something goes wrong? Who's gonna help you now? _

TBC…


	5. Part Five

**Author's Note: This may or may not make sense...I can only reassure you that in the end, it will all fall together. Trust me, I'm English x**

House sighed, slamming the door to his apartment behind him. The clinic had failed to provide him with more test subjects for his new toy, and what patients he did see, he really didn't want to touch their 'infected areas' so to speak. Just the thought of it was enough to put him off and send him home early, much to the annoyance of Cuddy – not that she'd actually realised he'd left early.

He'd ingeniously managed to hide from her for an hour before he'd escaped, in her office of all places. He pulled a thin manila file from his jacket and threw it onto the couch, something he'd managed to salvage from the Dean's boudoir during his disappearing act. _Well, if she's gonna leave things so carelessly open on her desk, what does she expect?_

Apparently Cuddy was interested in this John Doe too. _Her standards are really starting to fall... _She'd managed to compile a small record of information on the homeless guy from her hospital contacts, finding out his history from the local hostels, cops and shelters. "So nice of you to do the legwork for me..." House mumbled, flipping through the scarce document to find various phone numbers and addresses that could come in handy. She'd started with the obvious homeless shelters and local hospitals, running into problems and giving up with little to show for her efforts.

House had a stronger desire to know where this tramp came from, especially with all the strange goings-on lately. He needed something that he could use to explain his new 'power'.

He stretched over to grab the phone, pushing in the number for a hospital out of state. How likely was it that they'd remember Mr Doe? He leaned forward in anticipation as the phone rang a few times, unconscious to the way he was almost desperate for the doctor the other end to pick up.

A weary voice answered his silent prayers, "What is it?"

House purposefully break-necked it through the facts, aware of the fact it was past seven pm – home-time: "John Doe, multiple injuries over a long period of time, once treated by you for a severely ruptured appendix which brought on multiple organ failure – but when you removed the appendix, there was no sign of rupture or organ failure. Remember him?"

"Who is this?" the guy sounded pensive, obviously thinking House was a reporter for some journal looking to publicly humiliate him by dragging up his past. "How did you get this number?"

"I'm a doctor – I treated the same guy." House tried his best to sound sincere, "I ran into a similar problem..."

"You're a doctor?"

"I'm an Oncologist," House lied. "I work for Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital – if you wanna call them to confirm, that's fine. Just ask for Dr Wilson." House paused, waiting... "Hey, I'm sure you were just about to walk out of the door after a long shift – me too. So if you could just answer a few questions – I'll make it real quick, okay?"

"Look..." the guy sighed, hesitating. It _had_ been a long day.

"He's dead, the John Doe that is." House used his killer opener in the hope that the guy would see he wasn't in danger of being sued by anyone.

"Oh...you sure?"

Was this guy serious? "Yeah, I was told in med school that once they enter the morgue, they're pretty much incurable..." House heard the other doctor snort, he hoped it was in amusement because he hadn't even gotten around to asking the real questions yet.

"Okay, let me explain." The doc began to tell his tale of woe... "This guy...we signed him off as a John Doe – but between you and me, I think he came from an institute across state. We found some of their stuff in his belongings, plus I recognized him as soon as he came in – his name was Josh Brent, _I think_. I signed him off as a John Doe after he went awol – taking our best Neurosurgeon with him! Personally, I think it was a huge con; guy comes in, poaches our staff, offers them cars, money, better working conditions – who knows? He probably worked for some top city hospital..."

The guy seemed to have forgotten all about House on the end of the line, which suited House just fine – he was content to listen to the new development in silence. "So, he somehow gave himself the symptoms of Appendicitis – I don't know how...we couldn't get a straight answer out of the guy, he was acting crazy – so we put him through surgery..."

"So, you refer him to Psych after surgery?" House asked, flipping through Cuddy's notes and seeing nothing written about follow up care or discharge. The guy had his appendix removed, he must have had discharge papers of some sort...

"He escaped before we could do anything with him."

"Huh?" House was sure he'd misheard – how do you escape from a hospital?

"He was ten minutes out of surgery, he woke up, he hopped off the gurney and walked out of the hospital – wearing only a gown."

"Ten minutes after surgery? Now I'm no Anesthesiologist but-"

"I've heard it all before and I'm telling you – he just walked out!" the doc interrupted, clearly exasperated with the whole mystery. "Maybe our guy helped him, I can't say."

"Didn't security stop him?"

"It was late, security were dealing with a bunch of drunks – they claim they never saw the guy leave."

"How late?" House questioned with the sense that it mattered more to him than it really should.

"Err, as far as I can remember, the guy was brought in just after midnight. I was the poor dope in charge and that guy has seriously been the bane of my entire career since that night."

House scribbled down a few words and rapidly thought of another question - "Did you get a chance to examine him before surgery? Maybe take a look at any of his other problems?"

"Other problems?" the doc sounded confused. "Mentally, he was a little out of it – which is what linked me to...Rose springs – hey, that's the name of the home: Rose springs. Why'd they bother trying to make it sound like a vacation spot? It's a nut house-"

"You were saying about his condition" House said impatiently, cutting off the other man in his musings.

"Yeah, the Techs tried to palm him off onto us with some story about him having multiple organ failure – plus, breakages, lacerations and severe concussion. They found him collapsed outside an airport, apparently." the doc paused, clearly remembering the night in question. "I should have let someone else deal with him...did you need anything else?"

"The Neurosurgeon, what happened to him?"

"Ah, you'll love this, he disappeared off the face of the earth for about three weeks – then his body was found in his kitchen...poor guy had slipped on some juice and broke his neck on one of those metal rimmed chairs...they figure from the fecal matter, he was alive for three days before he...well, you know. Hey, you think Josh Brent had anything to do with it? Maybe I should call the police, yeah?"

House didn't answer, he was reeling from the strange new facts spewing out of the docs memory. He was having trouble deciding if this call had helped the situation, or simply thrown more spanners into the works. "Thanks for your help" he rasped, feeling shell shocked. He hung up before the doc could sucker punch him with more revelations. He had a new line of inquiry after all, which Cuddy had failed to uncover. He also had a possible name – Josh Brent.

He wasted no time in following up the first lead. He had his call forwarded to the pleasantly sounding 'Rose springs' with no real idea about what he was going to start with first. Luckily, he was forced to think fast as a peeved receptionist tried to get him to call back in the morning.

"No – wait, please!" he said desperately, impressed with how polite he could be when he wanted something – and he wanted to know what the fuck was going on...

The woman huffed angrily, she sounded as though she wouldn't be as easy to probe as the previous interviewee. "I can give you a couple of minutes, but I've got other places to be."

"This won't take long. I need to know if you have any records of a 'Josh Brent' in your patient files – I believe he was a with you about a year ago-"

"Well I can tell you without looking that he ain't got no records here - because he wasn't a patient here."

"What, do you personally memorize each patient that comes in?" House asked snappily. He was working on the assumption that if he was making the effort to be polite, then everyone should make that same effort because personally it was killing him.

"Jeez, calm down..." the woman said under her breath. "I mean he doesn't have a record here as a patient because he was never here as a _patient_. He used to _work_ here for a while though."

"As what?" House managed to ask through gritted teeth.

"As a doctor..." the woman answered patronizingly, "who did you say you were again?"

"I didn't."

"Oh...well, I have to go-"

"Just one more question – do you know where he worked before he came to you?"

"Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"He's dead. I don't think you can _be_ in worse trouble." House replied dryly, enjoying the silence that followed, to a point. "Look, it's important...please."

"I uh, well...he was a big city Neurologist – that's all I know." she laughed humourlessly, "I heard he got fired for forgetting where he worked – he always forgot things, names, appointments...we put it down to him being eccentric." she waited a beat "how did he die?" House hung up rather than answer. He wasn't even sure he could answer.

No sooner had he hung up, the shrill tone of the telephone called out. He decided to let the machine pick up as he made his way through to the kitchen to get a glass of water to quench his thirst. The unmistakable shrill voice of Cuddy filled the apartment as she hissed at him to acknowledge her.

"House! Pick up! I know you're there, you've been on the phone for over an hour...even your mother wouldn't talk to you for that long...Pick up!" she paused expectantly. "I need you to come in and talk to Ms Metcalf-"

"Who's Ms Metcalf?" House asked, earning himself a stifled shriek in the ear from Cuddy who hadn't realised he'd picked the phone up.

"Ms Metcalf is the wife of your patient – how long have you been on the phone?"

"My patient's name is Collins..." House stated thoughtfully.

"So they don't use the same name, it's not unheard of – and you can't use that as an excuse not to come." Cuddy said earnestly. "Why didn't you pick up when I rang?"

"I had to wash my hands from the last call" House lied, measuring Cuddy's reaction to that by counting the seconds it took her to divert the conversation.

"Can you come in and talk to her, please." It must have killed her to beg.

"About what?" House inquired, laying back on the couch and getting comfortable, "the weather? The price of gas?"

"She wants to take her husband off of life support."

"Well that'll be a quick conversation – her husband isn't _on_ life support."

"Foreman had no choice..." Cuddy began, getting cut off immediately by her angry Diagnostician.

"Why didn't you say so – we could have skipped all the trivial crap and I could have been at the hospital by now!" House exclaimed, hanging up before Cuddy could defend herself.

He grabbed his bike helmet, jacket and bag. As he bent over to scoop up his cane, his vial of Vicodin fell from the bag and bounced noisily across the wooden floor, coming to rest by the leg of the coffee table.

He hopped forward on his good foot and picked the pesky bottle up. It was full. Plus, he couldn't recall the last time he'd taken one. _Was it yesterday? Not today, that's for sure. _He thrust the vial into his rucksack and left the apartment, his head full to the brim with questions and worries. He was telling himself over and over to be wary of this new found discovery. _Don't break out the champagne and party hats just yet_...

He wouldn't have believed his night could have gotten get any stranger...but it did.

TBC...


	6. Part Six

**Author's Note: Same warning as before – just go with it! If you like it, maybe I'll update again tomorrow...It is the same fic – just incase you get worried and think I've gone off on a tangent (I seem to do that a lot...) Cheers for reviewing guys, you're the best x**

By the time he'd arrived at PPTH, the heavens had opened, turning the parking lot into Lake Placid. Luckily his 'alligator welcoming committee' were huddled in the main entrance, apparently waiting for him to arrive. Cameron produced a towel out of nowhere, a skill which must have taken many years to perfect in House's opinion.

Using his own cleverly devised swapping technique House took the towel and exchanged it with his helmet and bag, smirking as Chase stepped in to take it from the damsel in distress. The four of them headed towards the elevator, House giving the pretense that he was actually listening to the stats that Foreman was reeling off beside him and the fellows trying desperately to keep out the puddles that House's shoes were trailing. As they arrived at the fourth floor, House began to head for his office much to Foreman's disapproval.

"Where are you going?" he asked angrily, treating House like a naughty child. The three young doctors had been working on this case for over eighteen hours already that day; they were tired, snappy and brave, to say the least.

"My office-" House didn't even have a chance to argue.

"We don't have time." Foreman insisted, earning himself an impressive glare from his mentor.

"I'll shrink, then you'll be sorry..." House mumbled, peeling his heavy, rain-soaked leather jacket off, handing it to Chase, then taking the lead as they continued towards the patient's room. It did seem rather petty to punish Chase for Foreman's irritability, but then, life isn't always fair.

The squelch of House's shoes filled the lifeless corridors, he was moving surprisingly quickly for a drenched cripple. He leaned a little more on his cane, not wanting his team to get suspicious with his new found agility. He was fully aware of the lack of pain in his thigh, it having been replaced with a sort of numbness instead - he was _desperate_ to get back home and investigate further, away from prying eyes...

Although, his desire to get in and out as quickly as possible was to prove his downfall, literally, as his cane slipped on the smoothly polished floor and clattered noisily in front of him. With a small stumble and a hop, House managed to stay upright. Not for long.

Poor Chase, who had been doing such a good job with carrying House's drenched possessions, didn't see his boss stopped in front of him and stumbled into him, knocking him completely off balance. The next thing the Diagnostician saw was the slippery, polished floor about an inch from his face. As if it couldn't get worse, Chase was sprawled out on top of him, desperately trying to get up without leaning where he shouldn't.

Chase scrambled up, speechless. Luckily, all three were saved from House's wrath by Cuddy, who'd pretty much seen everything from down the hall. "I want the three of you with Mr Collins – now." she ordered, dismissing the doctors for House's benefit. They scurried off, Chase taking House's belongings but having no idea what he was supposed to do with them.

Cuddy sighed, but the little devil within her was laughing, praying security got a tape of that fall, it could be worth _so many_ clinic hours...

"House. Up – we don't have all night." she watched her doctor scrape himself from the floor with more effort than he really needed to – milking it. He was fine. "You're wet." she stated, taking in his appearance whilst holding her hands on her hips.

"Yeah, well don't get too excited," he countered, "it's raining." He began to brush himself down, giving up as he became aware of her watching him intently. "Where is she then?" he asked, his mind still buzzing with images and questions about 'Josh Brent', his newfound ability to heal _everybody_, including himself, it seemed - he was itching to get back to his research. _This is completely uneccesary and boring..._he thought.

"She's in the cafeteria." Until he heard _that_.

"At this time of night?" he asked, surprised. "It's not even open."

"I had security open it up for her – she's just making a snack." Cuddy stated defensively. "I wasn't going to just let her starve!"

"Vending machines, Cuddy!" House argued, making his way towards the elevator. "You don't get hungry at a time like this..." he added, more for his own musing. "You don't eat, you barely sleep – what was she wearing?"

Cuddy frowned, clearly missing whatever point House was getting at. He had that strange gleam in his eye which meant she'd got his full attention now – which usually spelled trouble, for bother her and her hospital.

"Did she look a mess?" He was looking for something. A reason to berate the grieving family member, make fun of them, accuse them...

Cuddy stalled, thinking of a way to stop him, "She...uh...maybe you should go home, you're soaked through – I can probably hold her off 'till morning." But it was too late, House was getting into the elevator. "House – be nice..." she hoped he heard her.

* * *

Ms Metcalf was an attractive, slim, dark-haired lady. House remembered from Cameron's research that she was 36 years old and had five children. If she'd given birth to five children, House was employee of the decade. No chance in hell. This intrigued him further, made him wonder what else she was lying about...

He saw her watching him out of the corner of his eye as he crossed the cafeteria. There was something about her cool demeanor that sent alarm bells ringing in House's mind. She certainly wasn't acting like a grieving wife, she seemed agitated more that anything.

He poured himself a paper cup full of coffee and approached her table. "Cheers," he raised the cup, "You do realize there's a machine upstairs that give this stuff out for free...?"

"It only had decaf." she replied without missing a beat. "And I was hungry."

"Huh..." House limped over and motioned to the chair opposite her, "anyone sitting here?" she glared at him, sending out clear signals that she couldn't care less where he sat. The towel he'd used to half-heartedly dry himself had reached the pinnacle of it's use, he threw it down on the table and it landed with a satisfying slap.

"You're here to convince me not to let my husband's suffering come to an end." she declared knowingly. "Or you're going to tell me 'everything will be okay' and try and sell some new cure that will fix him-"

"Actually, I'm here for the coffee." House interrupted, loving the way she didn't look impressed with him wringing the towel out all over the cafeteria floor. "How long have you been married?" he caught her out with that one.

"What has that got to do with anything?" she asked, guardedly.

House shrugged, acting nonchalant. "I don't think you came down here for coffee." he admitted.

"Is that right." She glared at him, challenging him.

"In fact, you're not here to see your husband cured at all. You're here to see him dead." House knew he'd hit the nail on the head when Ms Metcalf gave him a small, sad smile instead of a slap. _Right again then..._

She opened her bag, and House inwardly panicked – did she have a gun in there? Was she going to kill the interfering doctor who wouldn't let her get on and murder her husband? The way the last couple of days had panned out, he wouldn't be surprised...

She pulled out a photograph, the same photograph House had seen beside his patient's bed, a family portrait – parents, Collins and Metcalf, either side with five beaming children in the middle. All between four and twelve years old, from what House could remember.

"My twin sister." Metcalf said, pulling House from the photograph. "She was married to that monster." House frowned, he had enough on his plate without another family drama to add to the equation. _Foreman should have handled this..._ he thought miserably.

"He killed them...all of them." she was talking about the children, House realised. "She had to lie to the police for him – I managed to get her to live with me for a while, but he came to collect her...I took her place – I've lived her life." she looked up at House with a new light in her eyes, "you have to let him die." _Oh brother...thanks for the brilliant research, Cameron._

"I'm a doctor, so it kinda goes against everything I've been taught." he joked weakly, leaning back in his chair. _I really don't need this right now..._

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for this day – _today_ is the day..." she was muttering now, losing her edge. All those months of poisoning her husband could all be over, _so_ close to the end.

"Yeah, I'm sure it's been pencilled into your diary for a while now..." he mumbled back.

As uncomfortable as the conversation had made him, coupled with the soaked clothing, House was ready to get the hell out of there. He stood slowly, passing the photograph back whilst looking over his shoulder, beyond the counter to the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Ms Metcalf, if that was even her real name, asked.

"To tell my team to test for more toxins – you _are_ poisoning him, right?" he squelched his way over to the kitchen, leaving his cane and calling back over his shoulder, "You went for everything and anything – hit him hard at home, got him admitted for everything from stomach aches to temporary blindness. Probably used something we'd never dream of testing for. But now you're here. Now you've been forced to scavenge for toxins _within_ the hospital – oven cleaner, bleach, acid...let me know if I'm getting close...you should have broken into the janitor's closet – he's got some bleach that'll stain your crap white..."

In the dark room, the moon the only light glistening through the rain splattered window, he located the phone and dialed through to the conference room in the vain hope that his team would be there to answer.

"Hello?" The dean herself answered, even better.

"Cuddy, I-"

Now House had planned to add a little more to his opening statement, but what he hadn't planned on was Ms Metcalf following him into the kitchen, arming herself with the largest heavy duty frying pan she'd ever seen. It wasn't intentional, it was just the first thing she laid her hands on.

Hearing footsteps behind, House turned to face her, prepared for another moralistic argument, but not what came instead. "Oh sh-"!

It was official – his day just got worse.

TBC...


	7. Part Seven

**AN: Yes, it has been over a year since I last updated...but it only took me twenty minutes to write this little filler chapter. Maybe I just need the inspiration to return. Apologies – enjoy! **

This was yet another time he really regretted having a bum leg. He had one hand on the telephone receiver and the other bracing himself on his stupid cane, when what he actually needed was a third hand to defend himself with. _No such luck. _

In a quickly planned evasive manoeuvre he leaned back and the edge of the pan made direct contact with the bridge of his nose, doing more than just unbalancing him. He felt blood running down his face before he landed ungracefully in a stack of plastic containers which splayed out in all directions under his weight.

"Damn!" he heard Metcalf hiss, followed by the sound of the telephone being hung up. _Whatever she's planning on doing next, she doesn't want Cuddy to hear. You really shouldn't be sitting right now..._

He was temporarily blinded by tears so he furiously fought to listen out for another assault. As he gingerly pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ease off the pain, he was surprised to feel a hand on his shoulder and a towel pushed into his hand. She didn't seem to be intent on killing him just yet. He reached out to pull himself up using the counter, only to find the pressure from her hand on his shoulder increase.

"Please, don't." Metcalf said, taking the towel from his hand and pushing it under his nose in a bid to mop up some of the blood. "I didn't want to hurt you – I just need to knock you out to give me some time..." House managed to crack an eye open at that admission. "Please. If he lives, just give me enough time to get as far away as I can. He'll kill me if he finds out."

"And if he dies?" House asked, watching the outline of her body, silhouetted against the streetlamps shining from outside. She stiffened at the question.

She replied quietly, "If he dies, I'll attend his funeral...I'll play the grieving widow, so my sister won't have to. She'll be free- and I'll live with what I've done to protect her." The hand holding the frying pan dropped to her side and she sighed. "What are you going to do?"

There wasn't exactly an exhaustive list of things he could do in his situation. "Just...get out of here." he said, thinking that he'd rather forgo a second hit with the frying pan that was bound to come if he tried to detain her much longer. "Sometime today." he added, seeing as she hadn't moved yet.

"Oh!" She ran to the door, stumbling over loose plastic tubs in her haste. She turned as a thought occurred to her. "Will you call the cops?"

"No, I won't" he replied, watching his attacker breathe a sigh of relief at that. It was the truth, but he didn't want to add that Cuddy would probably call the cops when she found out, especially since Metcalf was still armed.

She seemed to be satisfied by that answer. "I'm sorry about your nose..." she said, tossing the frying pan aside. "Let me know if he doesn't make it – you have my cell number." she added, before briskly exiting the cafeteria.

_Oh sure, I look forward to giving you that good news. _The diagnostician was thrilled to see her leave. He wasn't ready to follow just yet. His jeans were soaked, he had a killer headache and he could only imagine that the towel he had pressed against his nose had turned a nice shade of cherry red. He flung it to the side and groaned. _Cuddy will not be pleased that you've bled all over her clean kitchen._ A broken nose was the last thing he needed to contend with at the moment.

House slumped back into the tubs, glanced at his hand and wondered. _Does it work like that? _Not knowing what 'it' was didn't help in coming to a decision. Throwing caution to the wind, because it really didn't seem like he could do more damage, he pressed his hand to his damaged nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

"House!" Light flooded the room as Cuddy rudely interrupted his tentative experiment. He scowled as she hurried over with a mixture of worry and exasperation on her face. He made a grab for his cane before she did something stupid, like order him to stay put and wait for a gurney, but it was too far away to reach. "What happened? Where is Ms Metcalf? What did you do to her?" She seemed more concerned with his assailant. Obviously the sound of his nose being broken before Metcalf hung up the phone hadn't brought the Dean to his rescue, the possibility that he'd said something inappropriate had.

"What, no 'are you okay, House' or 'why are you bleeding everywhere'?" he asked. He didn't even need to feign irritation at her lack of sympathy for him. After being suckered by a pan that could fry eggs for the entire hospital staff in one go, he expected some sort of remorse from the woman who'd forced him into the situation. He made an effort to get to his knees, doing his best to avoid the plastic rubble.

"I just saw her leaving – in tears." Cuddy hissed. "I can only assume that the tears were because of something you said." She picked up his cane and, for a fleeting moment, looked like she would hit him with it.

House involuntarily baulked as she held it over him, causing his feet to slide on the plastic debris. He landed back in the same undignified sitting position that he was in before she'd entered. "She punched me!" he whined, making his second attempt at standing. This time Cuddy had the decency to give him his cane. "I think she broke my nose." he muttered, finally able to stand without losing his footing. _Damned tubs._

To his surprise, Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Look, I don't know what little _game_ this is all part of – but I'm hoping you at least managed to talk her out of taking her husband off life support?"

"She didn't mention keeping him on it _specifically_ before taking off, so I'm going to say I did." came the distant reply as he felt along the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. It had none of the excruciating bulges he'd felt just three minutes earlier. He glanced at his reflection in the mirrored worktop. The blood was gone. His nose was fine. _And yet, Cuddy is staring at you with that perverse look of concern and benevolence... _"What?"

"Your hand." She reached out and took it into her own hands. "How did this happen?" She looked up, expecting some glib, or crude, response, not the look of uncertainty currently being sported by her chief diagnostician. "House?"

"I don't know..." he admitted, unable to hide his confusion as he frowned at his left hand. This was the third time it had – _what? Broken without your knowledge? _"I hurt it yesterday." This was true to an extent. It had been fine until 'The Trampinator' had gotten hold of it and crushed it with his abnormally strong grip the previous day. Still, he didn't feel entirely comfortable trying to discuss with Cuddy something which was proving to be completely irrational and more bizarre than he'd initially thought. "So...autopsy results back on Supertramp yet?" he asked, keen to divert the conversation away from his hand for the time being.

He was rewarded with a scowl as Cuddy recalled the recently deceased homeless patient. She let go of his hand, turned and walked towards the door. "Do you know him personally, or are you just making a general enquiry?" She knew.

"Who told you?" he asked.

"Told me what?" she replied. He waited a beat. She sighed and turned back towards him. "Wilson may have mentioned that you were acting particularly strange this morning." _Figures._ "Your team have similar concerns. I told them it was normal – you going off, obsessing over another patient while you're no closer to diagnosing your own. You've had your fun. Get back to your patient, House." She seemed content with her pep talk and took his thoughtful silence as a final cue to leave.

_Fun? _House wouldn't have described the past 48 hours worth of mystery as 'fun'. Fun hadn't even come into the equation...had it? Sure, it had been fairly exhilarating to find he could apparently heal with simply the power of his touch. What was stopping him from having fun with that? He could quite easily amuse himself in the clinic for hours...fusing bones, joining skin, and curing incurable diseases..._interesting._ He'd have the power to put his department permanently out of work. On the other hand, he could keep his team busy by accepting the cases he wanted to take. They could continue diagnosing, testing, investigating and if it ever came to the point where they couldn't save the patient through conventional doctoring methods, he could simply step in and cure him. He'd have a zero mortality rate.

He needed an explanation though. Wilson was already paying the price for his patient's apparent spontaneous remission. Cuddy was bound to have questions if House voluntarily worked in the clinic and he wasn't sure how she'd take it if he even attempted to tell her the truth as to how he was seemingly able to cure through his fingertips. He wasn't sure he believed it himself. He half expected to wake at any moment and find it had been some sort of alco-vicodin induced dream. Or maybe he'd caught an ironically rare disease where delusions of grandeur were high up on the symptom list.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the towel he had used to mop up the blood from his nose. It seemed real to him. Still moist. House knew there was a possibility that the blood could hold valuable information concerning his current mental state. He needed to test it. He needed an explanation...


	8. Part Eight

"Testing the patient's blood _again_?" House asked, revelling in the fact that he'd successfully managed to sneak up on Cameron in the lab and make her jump. Simple pleasures.

"No harm in double checking." she replied, keeping her eyes down, focussing on the task at hand. If he'd annoyed her, she wasn't planning on showing it – probably because she knew that would frustrate him more.

House circled around and dropped the towel on the workstation next to her. "You really think that if you keep looking for a disease it's just gonna jump out and yell 'surprise!' when it gets bored of hiding?" She completely ignored him this time. "Did you put as much research into the guy's family history?"

"There's something wrong with the family history?" Now her interest was piqued. "Just because she wants to take her husband off life support does not mean she doesn't lov-"

"Okay! I get it. They're completely happy with each other – ecstatically so. But while you're testing out the limitations on your theory of unconditional love, you may want to throw another tox screen in, just so we're sure. Nothing says 'honey, I love you' more than the occasional dose of cyanide...or maybe the equivalent lethal dose in kitchen cleaner."

"She just wants to take him off life support to stop the suffering." Cameron said, "She's not poisoning him."

"Then you'll have no problem proving it." House scooted her over, putting an end to her testing despite the fact that there were plenty of other workstations for him to choose from. "You may want to check the cafeteria kitchen for the toxins we wouldn't have previously tested for – and Cuddy wants you to clear up the tubs...that'll make much more sense when you're down there, trust me. Oh, and find his kids."

Cameron folded her arms, an indication that she wasn't planning on moving until he came up with a better explanation. "I'm not kidding – cafeteria, then kids. Now! Vamoose!" Getting rid of her wasn't working quite as efficiently as he would have hoped because she was now transfixed by the towel he had just waved at her.

"Whose blood is that?" she asked, leaning in for a closer look.

"It's Cuddy's." He glanced towards her before delivering the one final blow which would ensure her departure. "She's ovulating." He could tell from the look of pure horror on Cameron's face that she could believe that. She left, and he found it difficult to recall if he'd ever seen her move so fast, especially since she was leaving his godly presence.

All thoughts of further tormenting his female employee were soon squashed as he felt his rebellious left hand tingling as though his blood had been infiltrated by a million champagne bubbles. He watched in shock as the colour of his healthy pink skin turned into a deathly grey, then deep red before settling for a painful blue. _Not good._

He grabbed his cane, abandoning the blood soaked towel as he made his way down the corridor in a bid to make it to his office. Luckily, and suspiciously, his leg protested very little as he increased his stride and pace when his darkened office was within sight. There was no time to worry about that just yet...

House threw open the door, registering a quick grunt of disappointment when it didn't simply shatter into great shards of glass pieces with the force. It closed behind him in much the same calm vein. He didn't bother turning the lights on, there was enough light coming from his computer which had come to life when he started banging the drawers of his desk. Due to the fact that his bones were grinding in the same way they had when Supertramp had gotten hold of him the previous day, he was slightly better prepared when he saw them snap within his bruised skin. Only slightly. There would always be some element of shock when it came to seeing your body possessed by some sort of internal entity perfectly intent on destroying you from the inside out.

He sucked in a sharp intake of breath as the pain finally hit him. Although agonizing, it wasn't enough of a deterrent in his mission. It could be worse and he knew it – he'd felt worse. He was desperately searching for that 35mm disposable camera he'd been keeping in his office for years. _C'mon, where is it?_ Aside from his laboured breathing, the room was eerily quiet. House wouldn't have been surprised to suddenly hear a loud clap of thunder ala hammer horror, especially when he finally found the elusive camera and started snapping away at his hand. _This is beyond wrong._

Something changed and House froze. The pain in his hand was subsiding. But there was still numbness, and it seemed to be moving up his arm. His shoulder was completely dead and his ribs soon followed suit. If he'd known what would follow, he wouldn't have stayed on his feet. He dropped the camera and grasped at the edge of his desk with his one good arm, the other refusing to obey even the slightest command from his brain. His ribs popped and his shoulder screamed out as it separated from the socket. He tried to scream in return, but found he couldn't make a sound.

He couldn't breathe. He dropped to his knees and curled over them, doing his best not to panic as he began to slowly suffocate. _Just need to get air...c'mon lungs! _As soon as he thought it, he managed to gulp in a ragged breath which sent him into a coughing fit. He let himself fall back from his knees, slamming his body against the desk and nearly toppling the computer off of it. The possibility of a heavy monitor to the head would be marginally lower than potential asphyxiation on his current list of problems...

The strange needle-like feeling was starting to drift down his side. _Not the leg – not the leg!_ House squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the pain he was sure was coming, but was forced to open them when the sensation bypassed his damaged thigh and continued down through his calf and ankle, finally settling on the bridge of his right foot. _Oh no._

He scrambled to pull off his shoe, ignoring the dull protest from his ribs and shoulder as he stretched to reach it. After he tugged his sock off, he cursed under his breath at the sight of his heavily bruised foot. _Pretty sure pain is supposed to come before bruising._ His entire body was buzzing, which seemed to slightly dull his senses at first, but he knew what was coming. With an unprecedented last burst of energy, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position and he grabbed the camera from his desk just as the first bone in his foot snapped. He let out a cry and dropped back down to the ground, practically panting from the mixture of pain and overexertion. He felt three agonising snaps altogether.

He gritted his teeth and took a few shaky pictures of his broken foot from his uncomfortable half-laying position. Since he was currently unable to physically show anyone the strange phenomenon in possession of his body, he'd have to settle for photographical evidence and hope that this wasn't just his mind playing some incredibly insane tricks on him – he harboured no desire to be committed to the nuthouse for thinking he was possessed...and the thought had entered his head on more than one occasion. If there was an explanation that didn't involve the homeless guy, then House had yet to think of it. How could one dead vagrant cause so much trouble? The pain subsided into an uncomfortable throb. _Okay, you really need help..._

House pulled the phone from the desk by its cord, unable, and unwilling, to stand until he was certain his body had stopped toying with him. He fumbled, dialled and waited impatiently for an answer from the other end. As his call connected, a rush of energy swam through his head, giving him what he assumed would be a killer headache. Instead, his sinuses seemed to erupt and all he could taste was blood. His nose was broken...again. Pain, currently his closest companion, was back and he groaned just as a voice said "hello?" on the other end of the line.

"I need you to take a look at something." House said, "It's urgent." His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, deeper than usual.

"House?" A confused sounding Wilson replied, "Are you at the hospital?"

"You have caller I.D" the diagnostician replied, using his sleeve to mop up his bleeding nose.

"I'm just having trouble believing it." The reply was unexpected. "I heard you were in at ten last night – and working late usually warrants a ten AM start for you at the earliest. Unless you're turning over a new leaf just to-"

"What time is it now?" House asked, more to himself than Wilson. He glanced at the window and reached for the blinds. As he took a handful and pulled them back, his stomach dropped. It was daylight outside. He hesitantly got himself up off the floor and saw a few people gracing the hallway outside of his office.

"It's eight." Wilson's voice reminded him that he was still holding the phone to his ear. "What's going on?"

_Eight?_ It couldn't be eight. If it was, that would mean he had lost at least nine hours. _What time did you get to your office?_ He couldn't remember. _Was it eleven?_ Or was it later? It didn't make sense, any of it. He didn't remember losing consciousness at any point during his mutinous body's freakish onslaught. Maybe it really did last that long. _No, you would have noticed._ By House's quickly thought out calculations it couldn't have lasted longer than 20 minutes. _So how do you explain losing nine hours?_

"Wilson," House said, "I need your help. I think I'm dying." Through the buzzing in his ears, he swore he heard his friend let out a sigh of exasperation...


	9. Part Nine

**Author's Note: Wow. Lets see if this still works shall we? Another year, another chapter – who says the economic downturn is a bad thing? Maybe I'll get another chapter written before September 2010. Still, let's not get too carried away. Enjoy! **

"Why are we here?" Wilson asked, motioning to the bustling coffee shop. It was at least the third time he voiced the question to his unusually fidgety companion. "How did _you _get here?" he added, looking around at the bustling street outside for his friend's bike.

"Materialism, Hylomorphism or Vitalism – depending on what you believe." House replied, not taking his eyes off the clerk working away in the photograph booth behind the glass window of the neighbouring drugstore. He had slipped him an extra twenty dollars to develop the film from his ridiculously old camera before any other. It had been thirty-six minutes and his patience was beyond wearing thin. It was practically translucent. Plus, he had been forced to buy Wilson a Danish and a cup of coffee to keep him from returning to the hospital. It was turning into an expensive morning. "Oh, you mean _here_!" he turned and regarded the younger man for a second, apparently deciding whether or not to let him in on the big secret. "Panspermia?" No. He wasn't ready to tell.

Before Wilson even had a chance to sigh, House grabbed his cane and made for the door. Abandoning what was left of his breakfast, the Oncologist followed, stumbling past the thrall of thirsty commuters in his rush to keep up with him. "It's silly really. I thought we were actually going to talk," he started, automatically following House into the drugstore. "On the phone you sounded...Not yourself." A slight understatement perhaps. If Wilson hadn't known the man on the other end of the line, he would say he almost sounded scared.

House gave no indication that he was listening. Instead, he hurriedly collected his photographs from the clerk and left the store, puzzling his companion even more. Once they were both standing in the small parking lot, the Oncologist tried again, this time refusing to unlock his car until he got a straight answer. "I took the bus." House offered, hoping that covering one of the previous questions would be enough to at least get them in the vehicle. Still Wilson refused to budge. House briefly considered taking the bus back to the hospital but reminded himself why he had really wanted his friend to join him. "I need you to take a look at some photographs. That's why I invited you here." The locks sprung open and House dived into the car before Wilson even had his door open.

"Don't tell me – you're planning on blackmailing somebody or you've turned Private investigator and need to know if the images of an unfaithful wife are clear enough to stand up in a court of law." Wilson said whilst peering over House's shoulder as he anxiously tore open the package. "Or you've simply been spying on someone and taking photos for your own twisted pleasure – is it Cuddy?" As soon the thought entered his head, the Oncologist seemed torn between looking and not looking at the pictures.

"I wish." House muttered, thrusting the top few photographs onto a tentative Wilson. "How long since you were married to Bonnie?"

Wilson took one hesitant look at the photograph in his hand and sighed, adding dryly, "How nostalgic." It was a grainy snapshot from his second wedding. Not quite what he was expecting in the eagerly anticipated photos. He heard his beeper going off in his jacket pocket and struggled to retrieve it, his seatbelt virtually pinning it to his body. "It's Cuddy." He glanced over at his passenger who was fully engrossed in thumbing through what photos were left in the stack. "I take it we've finished our little trip down memory lane?" The Diagnostician made no reply. "We'd better be getting back." He started the car and began to reverse, stomping his foot on the footbrake as House held a print up close to his face, obscuring his view of the road behind.

"You see that, right?" House asked, desperately trying to keep the urgency out of the question. He figured there was not going to be a better time to ask.

Wilson frowned, applying the parking brake with his car half in, half out of the parking space and effectively blocking the way for other drivers. He took the print from House's hand, angling it against the dull morning light to get a better look. "What is it?" he eventually asked, rotating the picture fully before lowering it to his lap. It was blurry and distorted no doubt due to the old, cheap disposable camera it had been taken on.

"It's a foot." House replied, passing another distorted image over to his companion for analysis.

"A foot?" Wilson couldn't help feel he was missing something important. House didn't drag him all the way out here to show him photographs of his estranged spouse and apparent random body parts...did he?

"Notice anything unusual?" House added. The following silence was agonizingly long and only added to his barely contained annoyance with the Oncologist's apparently poor psychic abilities. He knew he shouldn't hang all his hopes on Wilson but he was seriously starting to doubt his own mentality. If there was a better way to find out if he was losing his mind, he couldn't think of it.

"Is this a patient of yours?" Wilson asked. House's look told him that wasn't the answer he was looking for. "Okay, well it's obviously broken," he offered, handing the photographs back as an agitated driver in the back of the lot honked his horn in frustration at the stationary car blocking the way out.

As they pulled away from the parking lot, Wilson was oblivious to the look of pure relief on his passenger's face.

---------------------

"You're not going to believe it until you see it." House tried to explain without giving too much away to Wilson as they pulled into the parking garage at PPTH. He purposefully made a point not to elaborate. The last thing he needed was to scare off the one person he felt he could confide in, especially after he'd only just managed to get him back. He'd been careful not to mention Spontaneous Remission Guy because he knew Wilson was still suspicious and angry about his involvement, or appeared lack of, regarding his non-cancerous cancer patient. He couldn't think of a way to explain to Wilson about his new 'powers' without sounding like some sort of idiotic preacher or a idealistic, complimentary therapy apostle. It was also a given that the younger man would scupper any illusions about crippled superheroes too.

Even without the crazy theories, Wilson was having trouble swallowing the story of Josh Brent. Despite House explaining it three times and counting, he couldn't help but feel he was omitting an important detail. "So, you think our John Doe and this Josh Brent are the same person based on...what?"

"I told you," House replied, "I found the records of a similar case in Columbus. I spoke with his ER doc. He walked out of surgery whilst under anaesthetic. Either it's the same guy, or it's an amazing coincidence." House desperately needed it to be the same person because if it wasn't, he was back to knowing nothing. No names. No clues. No leads.

"Columbus, Ohio?" Wilson was still very much unconvinced. "That's eight hours – by car. This guy, _our John Doe_, was in no condition to drive." As if to reinforce his opinion, he killed the ignition and unbuckled the seatbelt.

"He was at an airport. That kinda indicates he wasn't planning a road trip." House said. He started leafing through the photographs again. "His plane was probably delayed," he added, making no move to exit the vehicle.

"Josh Brent...why does that sound familiar?" Wilson asked, ignoring the Diagnostician's incoherent mutterings.

House slowly unbuckled his seatbelt. "Dr. Joshua Brent was a Neurologist under Lavers at UCLA. He headed the research into Alzheimer's at Resnick for nine years. I took a consult on a case involving a patient of his three and a half years ago. That's how I know it's the same guy."

"You knew our John Doe?" Surprisingly, Wilson's tone was void of any accusatory tone.

"It's been five years, and he's really let himself go." House stared out across the parking garage, waiting for his friend to find the right question.

"He really was looking for you." Wilson said. "Do you know what he wanted?"

House gave a small nod. "I have feeling he was trying to show me something..."

--------------

Cuddy intercepted them at the entrance, a manila file gripped tightly in her hand. Any colour file was bad news; manila was the worst. To House, Manila meant his patient was still dying; or he was being sued; or he had a new case. Manila put to rest his plan of sneaking in unnoticed and hiding out in the clinic with Wilson to solve the mystery of the healing hand.

Cuddy handed the file to Wilson and took House's arm, leading him away from the bustling entrance with more force than grace. "Where is he?"she demanded.

House didn't even need to put on a front, he was completely bewildered. "I assume from your tone and your ironclad grip that you're missing someone more important than a janitor." He looked over the Dean's shoulder and caught Wilson frowning at whatever was in the file. He was overcome with curiosity, even more so when the Oncologist entered the hospital; without him. _So much for the show and tell experiment,_ he thought.

"I know you get some sort of twisted pleasure out of playing games with this hospital, but taking a body from the morgue is going too far, House." That brought him back to reality with a thud.

There was no mistaking who she was talking about. "John Doe." House guessed. He sighed, and then chuckled humourlessly.

This in itself earned a puzzled frown from Cuddy. "It wasn't you?"

"Careful, you're bordering on disappointment," House said, "Anyone would think I'm your only suspect."

"I find it hard to believe anyone but you would want to take that particular body." Cuddy replied. House would have agreed had it not been for the recent, bizarre developments. Apparently, the late Josh Brent was hot property. All the more reason to find him.

"Clearly you're looking for someone with a severe case of Necrophilia and one extreme scar fetish." House offered. "You do have security. I know it's a long shot but did you consider asking them whether they witnessed anyone walking out with a particularly paralytic date last night?"

"If I find you had anything to do with this..." Cuddy said, letting the threat hang in the air. "That body didn't just walk out of here by itself." The thought alone was enough to send an unwelcome chill down House's spine.

**TBC...**


End file.
